"Can you believe that we have not already exhausted this moment?" said Frederick, with a sad smile. Then, after a short pause, his face lightened and his eye glowed with its wonted fire; a gay resolve was written in his countenance. "Well, let us try, marquis, if you are right; let us seek to extend this moment as long as possible, and when death comes—"
"Finissons sans trouble, et mourons sans regrets,
En laissant l'univers, comble de nos bienfaits.
Ainsi l'astre du jour au bout de sa carriere,
Repand sur l'horizon une douce lumiere,
Et les derniers rayons qu'il darde dans lea airs,
Sont ses derniers soupirs qu'il donne a l'univers."
The marquis listened with rapture to this improvised poem of the king. When it was concluded, the fiery Provencal called out, in an ecstasy of enthusiasm: "You are not a mere mortal, sire; you are a king—a hero—yes, a demi-god!"
"I will show you something to disprove your flattering words," said Frederick, smiling. "Look out, dear D'Argens; what do you see, there, directly opposite to the window?"
"Does your majesty mean that beautiful statue in marble?"
"Yes, marquis. What do you suppose that to be?"
"That, sire? It is a reclining statue of Flora."
"No, D'Argens; THAT is my grave!"
"Your grave, sire?" said the marquis, shuddering; "and you have had it placed exactly before the window of your favorite study?"
"Exactly there; that I may keep death always in REMEMBRANCE! Come, marquis, we will draw nearer."